


Moments In Time

by spilled_notes



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3513092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilled_notes/pseuds/spilled_notes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glimpses into Jocelyn and Maggie's shared past.  Sparked by the idea that Maggie knew how good a barrister Jocelyn was from experience, not just her reputation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Courtroom Seven

Maggie still remembers the first time she ever saw Jocelyn Knight QC, 25 years ago in courtroom seven at the Old Bailey.  She had heard of her, of course.  Her record was outstanding, even then, and her reputation preceded her.  Waiting with pen poised Maggie felt certain her colleagues must have been exaggerating.  When Jocelyn began her opening statement, however, she forgot all about her notebook and could only listen, captivated by her voice – soft, hardly ever raised or even hardened, but certain and sure.  Later, turning her shorthand into prose and summarising the day, she heard the words in Jocelyn’s voice. 

She didn’t see her properly until days later.  In the lobby, Jocelyn was just another passing figure in black pencil skirt and jacket.  Maggie would never have recognised her if her junior hadn’t dashed over to begin a conversation.  That voice, already familiar, cut through the hubbub to Maggie’s ears, made her turn her head.  The loose gown had hidden a slender figure, slim legs impossibly long in her heels; her hair, free of the twist required to keep it under her wig, hung long and wavy and golden.  Maggie stared after her as she left, then gave herself a stern telling off.  _Get a grip of yourself.  It won’t do to become infatuated._  She persuaded herself that what she felt was just professional admiration: after all, Jocelyn was eloquent, brilliant, magnificent.  And yes, beautiful, but she tried not to dwell on that.

*          *          *

After a few years, Maggie stops covering crime, but she still thinks of Jocelyn from time to time.  She has never forgotten that voice, still hears it whenever she reads reports of her cases.  She doesn’t see her again until a few days before she leaves London for Broadchurch.  A colleague mentions that Jocelyn’s current trial is about to go to closing arguments and that she is, as usual, impressive.  Maggie can’t quite resist.   The next morning, when she should be packing, she instead gets up early and heads to the Old Bailey.  After all, who knows when she might next get the chance to see a lawyer of this calibre?  She almost manages to convince herself this is the only reason she is there.  Almost. 

Maggie smiles wryly when she sees that the trial is in courtroom seven.  _How fitting,_ she thinks.  _Ten years bookended with memories in the same room._   She slips into the gallery and, free of the obligation to take notes, sits back and admires.  Jocelyn is as eloquent and brilliant as she was a decade ago; she is just as beautiful too, however much Maggie tries not to think it.  She feels a sudden sadness, that she has missed years of watching this woman at work, that she may never get another chance to see her. 

Maggie resists the longing to glimpse Jocelyn without her gown and wig, to see how she has changed: if her hair is still golden or if it has greyed with age, if her legs are as long as she remembers, if her figure is as perfect.  Instead, she slips out after her speech, heads home to finish packing.  

Jocelyn’s voice haunts her all the way to Broadchurch.


	2. Promenade

Jocelyn remembers the first time she saw Maggie too, remembers it as if it were yesterday and not fifteen years ago.  It was early in July, the first afternoon of her summer visit to her mother.  She loved the busyness of London but home was an escape, and she preferred it before the schools broke up and the town was swarming with tourists. Each year she exchanged her barrister’s wardrobe of pencil skirts, blouses and heels for jeans, polo necks, and her old Barbour jacket, returned to the town she had grown up in and became just Jocelyn Knight.  No files, no briefs, no case notes; nothing from her life in London.

This first solitary walk had become a ritual, marking the separation of her two lives, a chance to clear her head of work and her lungs of London.  It was a typical summer’s day: hot and bright, sun glinting on the sea, blue sky, white clouds being hurried along by a brisk breeze.  Jocelyn breathed in deeply, smelt the sea and ozone, felt tension leave her body with each step.  On the promenade a woman, blonde hair blowing all over the place, was struggling to light a cigarette.

‘Here, let me.’

The woman whipped around; she looked as if she’d seen a ghost.  Jocelyn took the lighter from her unresisting fingers, moved to block the wind, and lit the cigarette for her.  After a few puffs she recovered a little, dug in her bag for the packet and offered it to Jocelyn.  She took one, turned her back to the wind, sparked the lighter and lit it first time.

‘You made that look easy.’

‘Practice,’ Jocelyn replied with a smile.

Their eyes met, blue and blue, Jocelyn’s the colour of the sea on a cloudless day, the other woman’s with the grey tinge of a winter storm.  Jocelyn had only meant to be helpful, had planned to continue her walk, but suddenly she wanted nothing more than to spend a few minutes with this stranger, this woman who was still gazing at her, apparently unable to look away.

‘Maggie!’

She finally turned her head when a car pulled up and a young man called through the window, then checked her watch.  ‘Oh God, I’m late.’  She jumped into the passenger seat, glancing back as they drove away, almost as if she was checking Jocelyn was really there.

In bed that night she saw the woman’s – Maggie’s – blue-grey eyes, pictured her expression and tried to put a name to it.  Shock?  Wonder?  Jocelyn fell asleep trying to work out what she could have done to provoke such a reaction in a woman she had never met.

*          *          *

The next evening, when the sun is dipping towards the horizon and the air has cooled a little, Jocelyn takes one of her favourite walks, away from the town and along the cliff top.  Just past the Taylor’s house, someone else is already admiring the view.

‘Hello again,’ Jocelyn says softly, standing beside her.

Maggie glances up.  ‘I’m sorry I left so abruptly yesterday, I’m usually more polite.’

‘What about for staring at me like I was some sort of curious specimen?’

‘Was I that obvious?’ she cringes.

Jocelyn raises her eyebrows.  ‘Only to anyone with working vision,’ she says drily.

‘I’m sorry,’ she repeats.  ‘I was just so surprised to see a top QC like you in a sleepy seaside town in Dorset.’

‘How do you know who I am?’ Jocelyn frowns, taken aback.

‘I covered some of your cases for the _Courier,_ best part of ten years ago. You made quite an impression.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment – I think,’ Jocelyn says with a laugh.  ‘How are you finding it at the _Echo_?  I take it you’re the new editor my mother mentioned?’

‘Would be embarrassing for you if I wasn’t, wouldn’t it?’ Maggie teases, and then sighs.  ‘Everyone’s friendly enough, but they seem wary of me.’

‘Yes, well there’s a tendency here to be suspicious of people from Somerset, so you’re basically a foreigner,’ Jocelyn says wryly. ‘If you stay long enough, you might become merely an outsider.’

‘And you?  Where do you rank?’

‘Ah, I’m the local girl made good.  I might not live here any more but I’m Broadchurch born and bred. Most people still remember that.’

Maggie looks at her in surprise.  ‘You’re from here?’

‘Everyone has to be from somewhere,’ Jocelyn replies. And then she remembers she’s talking to a journalist, and kicks herself for being so open.

Maggie must sense her sudden discomfort, because her face softens.  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.’  She lowers her voice, and her eyes glint with a barely suppressed smile.  ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

Despite her usual wariness, Jocelyn can’t help smiling in return; somehow she feels she can trust this woman.

‘I envy you, having somewhere so beautiful to come back to. Wakefield’s got nothing on this.’

‘You’re from Wakefield?’ Jocelyn teases.

‘Everyone has to be from somewhere,’ she parrots, and they both laugh.

Maggie sighs again.  ‘Besides, even if I did want to tell someone, I don’t have anyone _to_ tell.  Most of my colleagues thought moving here was akin to dying.’

‘You didn’t, though?’

Maggie shakes her head.

‘What tempted you?  I can’t imagine it was the excitement of Broadchurch’s news.’

‘This,’ she says simply, gesturing out to sea. ‘It’s spectacular.’

Catching sight of Maggie’s expression, Jocelyn realises that familiarity has made her take this view for granted. Now she sees it afresh through Maggie’s eyes – the oranges and pinks and purples of the sky reflected in the calm sea, the cliffs glowing in bands of rose and gold.

‘Mmm it is, isn’t it?’

They stand side by side in comfortable silence and watch the sun sink into the sea, then walk back into town together, stumbling in the darkness and blindly, automatically, reaching out to steady each other. They part at the end of Maggie’s street, having finally introduced themselves properly.

‘Maggie Radcliffe,’ Jocelyn whispers into the darkness as she lies in bed, smiling at how it feels to wrap her lips around the syllables. When she closes her eyes Maggie’s face is before her again, this time painted with the warmth of the dying sun and enraptured by the view. 


	3. Tea?

The next time they meet it’s because they bump into each other rounding the end of an aisle in the supermarket.

‘Sorry,’ they both say automatically, and the sound of a familiar voice makes them look up.

‘I’m going to start thinking you’re stalking me.’

‘Says the woman who moved to my hometown,’ Jocelyn retorts. ‘I think I’m the one who should be worried.’

Maggie holds up her hands defensively. ‘I had no idea you had a connection to Broadchurch.’

‘I only have your word on that.’

‘I think my reaction to seeing you made it abundantly clear.’

‘Ah yes, fair enough,’ Jocelyn smiles, conceding the point.

They’re standing in silence, just looking at each other, when an older woman rounds the corner and puts a tin of something into Jocelyn’s basket.  ‘There you are, dear.’ She looks at Maggie curiously. ‘Are you going to introduce us?’

Jocelyn blinks, shakes her head slightly. ‘Yes, yes.  Mum, this is Maggie Radcliffe.  Maggie, this is my mother, Veronica.’

‘It’s nice to meet you,’ Maggie smiles, taking the hand Veronica offers.

‘You should come over for tea sometime,’ Veronica says. ‘I imagine Jocelyn hasn’t invited you.’

‘Mum, I’m not eight!  I can organise my own social life.’

‘Yes, of course you can dear,’ she says, eyebrows raised. ‘That’s why when you’re here you’re always out and about, rather than spending all your time alone or with me, hmm?’ She turns to Maggie, who has her lips pressed tightly together to try and suppress a smile.  ‘Lovely to meet you, dear.  I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.’

Jocelyn watches her mother head down the next aisle then turns to Maggie.  Her frown turns into a scowl when she sees Maggie’s expression, which only makes her grin.

‘So, are you going to invite me over for tea then?’ she teases.

‘Oh, don’t,’ Jocelyn replies with a glare, but Maggie’s smile is infectious and she can’t help returning it.

‘I’ll let you get on.  After all, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your busy social life.’

Jocelyn shakes her head and huffs at her, but she’s still smiling.

‘I’d say yes, you know,’ Maggie calls as she walks away.

‘What?’

She glances back.  ‘If you asked me for tea.  I’d say yes.’

*          *          *

So the next day Jocelyn decides to be sociable, decides to ask. She walks to the _Echo_ , goes into the busy, chaotic newsroom and is directed to Maggie’s office by the young man who interrupted them on the promenade. She glances through the open door to see Maggie typing away, then knocks quietly.

‘One moment,’ Maggie says, eyes and attention still fixed on her computer screen.

‘You really should take better care of your pot plant, you know.’

She looks up to see Jocelyn leaning against the door frame, arms loosely crossed, watching her with a soft smile.

‘Now I really am worried you’re stalking me,’ Maggie says.

‘I’m not, I promise.  I just wondered if you’d like to go for a cup of tea somewhere.’

Maggie sighs.  ‘I’d love to, but I’m afraid I’ve got to get this week’s edition finished. We’re not all on holiday, you know.’

‘Oh yes, of course.’  Jocelyn finds to her surprise that she’s disappointed.  She pushes away from the door frame, turns to leave so Maggie can keep working.

‘Jocelyn?’

She turns back.  ‘Yes?’

‘If you were to come back at around six?’

‘Yes?’ she repeats.

‘Well, if I’m not finished by then, I’ll definitely be in need of a break.’

‘Perhaps I’ll see you later then,’ Jocelyn smiles. ‘If I’m not too busy, that it.’

Maggie laughs, gazes after her as she walks back through the newsroom, then gets back to work.  The promise of seeing Jocelyn later energises her, and her fingers fly faster. Suddenly the lack of news this week no longer seems like such a problem.  Perhaps she _will_ be finished by six.

*          *          *

Jocelyn is back outside the _Echo_ at six on the dot.  In fact, she’s been waiting just around the corner for the last five minutes because in her fear of being late she left the house too early.  She hesitates, uncertain whether she should wait for Maggie outside or go in and find her.  She doesn’t want to disturb her if she’s busy, doesn’t want to appear pushy, but she has the impression that, like her, Maggie tends to get absorbed in her work. She is saved from her indecision by the door opening, and Maggie stepping out into the warm evening.

‘Where’s the best place for chips around here?’

‘Smiley’s,’ Jocelyn replies instantly.

‘Lead on then.  I’m starving.’

‘Are you finished for the day?’ Jocelyn asks as they start walking.

‘Almost.  Another hour or so should do it.’

‘I’d best not keep you too long then.’

‘Oh don’t worry, I’m used to much later nights than this.’

Jocelyn leads her down a side street, to a queue outside a chippy with a green and gold sign; a few people smile and nod at them.

Maggie raises her eyebrows.  ‘They must be good.’

‘Oh, they are’.

When they reach the counter they both order haddock, wait as it’s cooked fresh for them, then placed on top of mounds of crisp golden chips.

‘Salt and vinegar?’

‘Yes please,’ Maggie nods.

‘Just salt, thanks.’

Maggie digs in her bag for her purse, but Jocelyn puts a hand on her arm.  ‘My treat.’

‘Are you sure?’

She nods and smiles, pays while Maggie takes the bag of food. They head back to the beach, sit on the steps beside the row of blue huts, and unwrap the paper.

‘Mmm you’re right, this is excellent.’

‘Told you,’ Jocelyn says smugly.

Maggie soon gives up on the wooden chip fork, resorts to using her fingers even though the fish is steaming hot,  ‘Ridiculous things.  How on earth are you supposed to eat anything with this?’

‘You’ll burn your fingers,’ Jocelyn warns.

‘At least it’ll get into my mouth before it gets cold.’

The light breeze dusts a fine layer of sand over them, and Maggie grins at the gritty crunch.

‘Reminds me of holidays at the seaside when I was a child. Eating on the beach never seemed quite right unless there was sand in the food.’

‘Believe me, the novelty wears off when you live here.’

‘Along with your teeth, I imagine.’

Jocelyn chuckles.  ‘Where did you used to go?’

‘Scarborough mostly, sometimes Whitby. Once we went across to Blackpool. That was something, I tell you, seeing the tower.  We went up to the ballroom for tea one afternoon, watched the couples dancing.  I was in a bad mood because mum made me wear a pink dress that I hated, but in the end I enjoyed it so much I didn’t mind. Not that I told _her_ that, of course.’  She falls silent and stares, unseeing, along the beach, lost in her memories.

Jocelyn tries to imagine it, pictures a blonde girl in a pink dress, sour expression gradually softening in the splendour of the ballroom.

‘I never liked being made to wear pink either,’ she murmurs, thinking of her own childhood.  She gazes along the beach, at children playing, a runner on the hard sand near the tide line, a dog bounding through the low waves.  Her eyes light on the small boats bobbing gently on the water and she is taken back to her thirteenth birthday.  To her father waking her before dawn, telling her to wrap up because it’s freezing, but he promised, and they’re not going to let that stop them, are they?  Suddenly she misses him more than she has done in years.

‘I might get up early tomorrow and go fishing,’ she muses, crumpling her nearly empty paper and putting it into the bag.

‘You fish?’  Maggie looks at her, eyebrows raised, incredulous.

Jocelyn laughs at her expression.  ‘Even barristers have lives, Maggie.’

‘Yes, but – fishing?  I can’t imagine you fishing.’

‘My father taught me.  I’ve been catching my own since I was a teenager.  I take it you don’t?’  Maggie shakes her head.  ‘Have you been out on the bay yet?’

‘No.  You know, you should drop by the office with your catch, let us get a photo. News is a bit slow at the moment – if it’s impressive, you might make page two.  ‘The fishing barrister’.’  She frames the imaginary headline with her hands.  ‘That should pick sales up a bit.’

Jocelyn looks at her sharply, her face suddenly hard, completely misses the teasing glint in her eyes.  ‘If I see so much as a word about me in print,’ she warns, her voice a harsh whisper.

Maggie stares at her as she gets to her feet and walks off along the beach.  ‘I was joking.’

‘I should have known better than to trust a journalist,’ she mutters.

Maggie sighs in exasperation, grabs the bag of chip papers and scrambles to her feet.  ‘Jocelyn!’ she calls, but she ignores her and Maggie hurries to catch up. ‘Oh for God’s sake, woman. Are you always this suspicious of people trying to be your friend?’

Jocelyn stops suddenly, looks around at her. ‘You want to be my friend?’

‘Yes.  Is that so hard to believe?’

‘But – why?’

Maggie smiles at her bemused expression. ‘Because even though we don’t really know each other, I like you, Jocelyn.  And I’d like to get to know you better.’

‘Oh.’  She looks away, fixes her gaze on the horizon.  ‘I don’t have many friends,’ she admits, frowning slightly.

‘Well, you’ve got to start somewhere.’

‘Hey, I didn’t say I haven’t got any.’ She feels hurt, until she looks around and sees that Maggie’s smile has turned into a grin. She shakes her head, tries to be annoyed but feels her lips curving into a matching smile.  ‘Are you always this impossible?’

‘You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you.’

Jocelyn forces herself to look serious. ‘And what makes you so sure that I like you, that I want to be your friend?’

‘Oh, you do,’ Maggie replies confidently, adds in a stage whisper, ‘I can tell.’

Jocelyn shakes her head, allows herself to smile as they start to stroll along the beach.  ‘Fine. Then in my first act as your friend I’ll take you out onto the bay.’

Maggie’s smile fades.  ‘I’d really rather not.’

‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘It’s not that, it’s just,’ she swallows, and Jocelyn sees the discomfort on her face.  ‘The only boat I’ve ever been on was the ferry to France and, well let’s just say I dreaded the return journey so much I’d rather have swum the Channel.’

‘It’s nothing like being on a ferry,’ Jocelyn reassures her, smiling softly at her disbelieving frown.  ‘We’ll take some wine, sit and read, enjoy the sun.’

‘We could do all that on dry land,’ Maggie says stubbornly.

‘Oh, but it’s not the same.’

As Jocelyn launches into an explanation of why boats are so wonderful, Maggie is suddenly transported back to the Old Bailey, to that first opening speech ten years ago.  She loses track of the words as Jocelyn’s voice washes over her, as her face and eyes light up with enthusiasm, hands gesturing animatedly in front of her. Maggie blinks, forces herself back to reality in time to catch the end of a sentence.

‘…Sunday, if the weather’s good and it’s nice and calm.’

‘Okay.’  Maggie finds herself nodding, smiling, even.

It isn’t until she gets home, after finishing work and locking up, that she realises exactly what she has agreed to. She curses herself, but Jocelyn looked so happy and excited that she can’t bring herself to cancel; besides, that might break this fragile new friendship, and she doesn’t want to take the risk.

‘It’s a wonder you ever lose any trials, a voice like that,’ she grumbles as she gets ready for bed.

But she can’t sleep.  She shudders, remembering how terrible she felt on the ferry, how embarrassing it had been being so sick in front of a girlfriend who had also never been on a boat but who hadn’t suffered in the slightest.  She hadn’t enjoyed the holiday at all, had just fretted, dreading the return.  The travel sickness tablets Alice found had helped a little: instead of spending the whole journey in the toilets she had spent it curled in her seat, feeling pathetic. Her stomach churns at the memory and she shifts uncomfortably.

_Oh God, what if she’s wrong? What if it is just like the ferry?_

The thought of throwing up in front of Jocelyn, of the humiliation, makes her feel worse.  She rolls over, buries her face in her pillow.

_She won’t want to be my friend after that.  And I’ll be the laughing stock of the town if word gets out._

She finally falls asleep hoping that the weather will turn, that it will be so awful that they won’t be able to go out. But on Saturday night the forecast is good, and when she wakes up on Sunday it’s another beautiful day with only the barest hint of a breeze.

 _Drat,_ she thinks.  _No escape._


	4. Day in a Boat

They meet for a late breakfast in a café on the seafront.  Maggie arrives first, gets the last empty table, sits with her back to the window and the sea; she doesn’t want to be reminded of what’s about to happen.  Then she realises that this means she’s looking at the counter full of the day’s cakes and scones, at everyone else enjoying breakfast, and she isn’t sure if that might not be worse.  Her stomach is already churning and the thought of eating – of food in general – is not a pleasant one.  But it’s too late to change her mind because Jocelyn is here, pulling out the chair and sitting across from her.  She orders a full English and tea with a bright smile, waits for Maggie.

‘Just tea, thanks.’

‘Not hungry?’ She looks at Maggie, studies her pale face, sees the worry in her eyes, her trembling fingers. ‘You’ll feel worse on an empty stomach.’ Maggie glares at her. ‘And some extra toast,’ she adds to the waitress.  Maggie’s glare intensified.  ‘Just have a little bit – please?’

‘Fine,’ she huffs, relenting under Jocelyn’s concerned gaze.  She’s glad the café is so full, glad there are plenty of children; the noise makes conversation impossible, saves her from having to find something to say when all she can think about is how awful and embarrassing today is going to be. She is focusing on breathing, on trying to calm her stomach, when the waitress comes back.  She reaches for the teapot, glad of an excuse to put off eating – Jocelyn’s expression makes it clear she has no choice in the matter – a little longer.  The spout rattles against the teacups with the trembling of her fingers; she is amazed she only spills a little into her saucer and doesn’t flood the whole table. She knows Jocelyn is watching, noticing, can feel those blue eyes on her, and is grateful she says nothing.

While Jocelyn tucks into her breakfast, Maggie nibbles a corner of her toast.  Anxiety has made her mouth dry, made her taste buds stop working, and her throat seems to have forgotten how to swallow. When she can’t chew any longer, she forces her tiny mouthful down with a sip of tea, which is too hot, burning her tongue and making her cough.

‘Are you alright?’

Maggie nods, still coughing. Jocelyn jumps up, comes back with a glass of water.

‘Here.’

Maggie smiles gratefully, takes a sip. ‘Thank you,’ she manages, followed by another cough and a sheepish smile.

‘Better?’

She makes a noncommittal noise, then rests her head in her hands.  ‘Why did I agree to this?’ she moans.

‘Because I persuaded you with a compelling argument?’ Jocelyn suggests.

‘Hypnotised me, more like,’ Maggie mutters, determined never to reveal that she didn’t actually hear Jocelyn’s argument. ‘I must not have been in my right mind.’

She hears a clink as Jocelyn sets down her cutlery, looks up as a hand tentatively brushes her arm. ‘If you really don’t want to go, I’m not going to make you.’

She looks sincere, but Maggie can see a hint of disappointment in her eyes.  ‘No,’ she says firmly.  ‘I live by the sea now, I have to at least _try_ and like boats.’

‘If you feel even slightly ill we’ll turn around and come straight back, and I’ll never so much as mention boats again.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.  And I won’t tell anyone.’

Maggie smiles, rests her hand over Jocelyn’s for a moment.  ‘Okay,’ she agrees.

‘More toast?’ Jocelyn offers. ‘And maybe try not to choke this time. Or is that a scheme to try and get out of it?’ she teases.

‘No.  I might be dreading it but I’d rather not die.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Jocelyn smiles. ‘I don’t have enough friends to be able to afford to lose one.’

By the time Jocelyn has cleared her plate, Maggie has managed one slice of toast.  It’s clearly enough to satisfy Jocelyn – maybe she knows a hopeless case when she sees one – because she finishes her tea then raises her eyebrows in question.  ‘Ready to go?’

Maggie takes a deep breath, then nods. ‘Come on,’ she says, standing up and pushing her chair in.  ‘Before I change my mind.’

They walk down to the harbour in silence.  It’s closer than Maggie remembers – _much_ closer. In fact, they seem to be there in an obscenely short amount of time.  When Jocelyn stops and steps down into a small blue and white boat, holding out a hand to her, she feels entirely unprepared.

_Oh, who am I kidding?  I’ve had days to prepare, five minutes more wouldn’t have made any difference._

She almost bolts, almost turns and runs, but forces herself to take the offered hand; Jocelyn’s fingers are warm against her own cold, clammy palm.  As her foot touches the boat it rocks slightly, throwing her off-balance and into Jocelyn, who steadies her; unlike Maggie she is rock solid, perfectly poised.

‘Alright?’

Maggie nods, sits down and grips the bench tightly.  She closes her eyes, concentrating on breathing, trying to stay calm, to keep her stomach from getting worse.

‘Fix your eyes on the horizon,’ Jocelyn murmurs as she passes, much closer to Maggie’s ear than she expected, making her jump.

‘Will it help?’ she asks through gritted teeth.

‘I know people who swear by it.’

Maggie reluctantly opens her eyes, fixes them on the line where blue sea meets bluer sky.

‘Ready?’

Maggie glances at her, draws comfort from the steadiness of her gaze, and nods.

Jocelyn doesn’t take them out that far; they’re still well within the curve of the cliffs when she cuts the engine and drops the anchor.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asks, sitting beside Maggie and touching her arm gently.

‘Like I might have escaped completely and utterly humiliating myself.’

Jocelyn smiles.

‘Oh, don’t look so smug,’ Maggie scowls.  ‘Doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.’

Suddenly Maggie feels an uncomfortable churning in her stomach, panics that she might have spoken too soon. And then there is a loud rumble, which makes Jocelyn stare at her with widened eyes.  She feels a hot blush spread across her cheeks and looks at her lap, embarrassed.

‘Hungry?’ Jocelyn’s voice carries a note of amusement, but is still kind.

‘Apparently,’ Maggie mutters.

‘Good.’  Maggie feels the boat rock gently as Jocelyn stands and crosses to the small cabin.  ‘I was reluctant to suggest opening the wine until you’d eaten something else.’

Maggie hears the unmistakable creak of wicker, looks up to see Jocelyn crouching beside a picnic basket.

‘Cheese or ham?’

Maggie finds, to her surprise, that she’s ravenous.  The sandwiches are followed by a thick slice of lemon cake, drizzled with sharp-sweet icing.

‘This is delicious.’

Jocelyn smiles. ‘My mother has become something of a baking fanatic since she retired.  In fact, she rather upset the WI by beating their members in almost every class in the flower show that first summer.’

‘Well, tell her that if she ever wants anyone to test a recipe on I’ll happily volunteer.’

‘Oh, she’ll be delighted. She keeps badgering me to invite you over for tea.’

‘You don’t sound too keen – worried I might embarrass you?’

‘No,’ Jocelyn replies quickly, almost sharply, not wanting Maggie to think that for even a moment. ‘No,’ she repeats, softer. ‘I’m worried _she_ might embarrass me.’

‘Surely she won’t get out the baby photos for someone you’ve only just met?’ Maggie teases.

‘You don’t know my mother,’ Jocelyn mutters darkly.

Maggie chuckles, ignoring her glower. ‘Well you’re safe this week. We’ve got lots of end of school year events to cover – sports days and the like.’  She sees Jocelyn sag a little with relief, and can’t resist teasing her.  ‘Next week, however, is an entirely different matter.  Plenty of time for afternoon tea then.’

‘Sadly I’m going back to London on Sunday morning.’

‘Lucky escape,’ Maggie grins. ‘Maybe I’ll visit her when you’re not here, see what information I can gather about you.’

Jocelyn sees the glint in Maggie’s eye, the barely-suppressed smile, and fights the instinct to snap, to put up her defences.  ‘I’m sure she’d willingly give you enough material to keep you going for weeks’, she says drily, getting up and going to the hamper again.  ‘Red or white?’

‘Red, please.’

Jocelyn uncorks the bottle, pours two glasses, then switches on a portable radio.  She hands one glass to Maggie, holds up her own. ‘To new experiences?’

‘New experiences, and new friends,’ Maggie smiles.  She swirls the wine, sniffs before taking a sip, aware of Jocelyn watching her, waiting for her reaction. ‘Mm, that’s good.’

Jocelyn’s relief is evident only in the way she relaxes back into her seat, lips curving slightly as she takes a sip, then opens a well-worn copy of _Bleak House_ and settles to read.

The radio adverts end, replaced by a piece of classical music Maggie vaguely recognises but cannot name. Jocelyn, however, clearly does know it. Maggie watches as she closes her eyes, her expression changing with the ebb and flow of the music, her head tilting, flickers of movement in the fingers loosely cradling her glass.

‘What was that?’ she asks when it’s over.

Jocelyn opens her eyes, surprised: she had got so lost in the music that she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone. ‘Bach,’ she manages. ‘Prelude from the first cello suite.’

‘It was lovely.’

‘Hm.’  Jocelyn is still smiling softly, not quite back in the real world yet.  ‘I used to be able to play it,’ she says quietly.  ‘Nowhere near as well as that, but passably.’

Maggie has a sudden image of Jocelyn’s long legs cradling a cello, that same, almost rapturous, expression on her face, blinks it away.  ‘Musical as well.’ She shakes her head, impressed. ‘Is there anything you can’t do?’

Jocelyn chuckles. ‘Well I certainly can’t play the cello any more.  I gave up when I left school.’ She hesitates, considering, comes to a decision.  ‘And I’ve been told I’m not very good at taking care of other people, _thinking_ of other people,’ she adds softly.

‘You’ve done a pretty good job of looking after me today.  You even brought a picnic.’

‘Which my mother prepared,’ she admits, blushing slightly.  ‘I was just going to bring wine.’

‘You think I would have complained? Although you might have had to carry me home.’

Jocelyn smiles, grateful for Maggie’s unnecessary kindness.  She returns to her book, but for a long moment doesn’t take in any of the familiar words. No, instead of concentrating on the interminable Jarndyce and Jarndyce she finds herself wondering how it would feel to hold Maggie in her arms.  Just to help her, of course, after too much wine on a practically-empty stomach. Nothing more.  She is oblivious to the way Maggie’s eyes linger on her, studying her over the top of her own book. 

Maggie is amazed at how little Jocelyn seems to have changed in a decade.  There are a few fine lines around her eyes, yes, and her hair is shorter and not quite as golden, although it seems to glow more here in the clear, bright sunlight than it ever did in the Old Bailey.  There is a difference in her, though.  It’s her clothes, Maggie realises.  That’s what made seeing her even more of a shock.  Gone are the perfectly fitted suits and expensive silk blouses, replaced by soft, loose fabrics.  Seeing her here, like this, it is almost impossible to imagine her in court – just as having seen her in court made it impossible to imagine her anywhere else, let alone a place like this.  Yet Jocelyn looks as at home here, on the water, as she did in court.

Maggie suddenly feels privy to something incredibly intimate, feels she is one of only a few people who have been allowed to see these two sides of Jocelyn, to know both of her selves. She feels something – she’s not quite sure – Shift?  Twist? Swell? – inside her. She considers for a moment, decides the word doesn’t matter; it’s so hard to describe emotions. Whatever it is, it makes her smile.

_I’m sat in a boat, sharing a bottle of wine with Jocelyn Knight. Who’d’ve thought it?_

And then Jocelyn glances up, finally feeling the intensity of Maggie’s gaze.  Caught, Maggie blushes, but Jocelyn merely smiles softly. Suddenly the stress of moving, and of trying to turn a struggling paper around, and of trying to be accepted in a town wary of anyone who wasn’t born here – whose _parents_ weren’t born here – fades away.

‘Do you have plans for Saturday evening?’ she asks, the words out of her mouth almost before she’s thought them.

‘No,’ Jocelyn shakes her head, still smiling.

‘Come over for dinner?’

‘I’d love to.’

‘Is there anything you don’t like?’

‘If there is, I haven’t found it yet.’

‘Ooh, I do like a challenge,’ Maggie smiles, a teasing glint in her eye.

Jocelyn laughs, full and joyous and contagious – and everything feels like it’s going to be all right.


	5. Secrets and Revelations

The smell of the rich tomato and meat sauce bubbling away on the hob fills the tiny ground floor flat as Maggie bustles around, desperately trying to bring some sense of order to the chaos.  What began as an attempt at proper tidying has devolved into merely scooping up armfuls of the mess and piling it onto her bed: not a long-term solution, but she doesn’t have the time to do any better. Her morning at work spread well into the afternoon; now seven o’clock is fast approaching, and she still has so much to do to make it fit for company.

She breaks off to cook a quick béchamel sauce, to layer it with the meat and sheets of pasta.  Topped with a generous helping of cheese the lasagna goes into the oven at last. She leans against the counter, allows herself a brief moment of respite.  And then –

‘Bugger,’ she exclaims to the empty kitchen. Dessert.  She’s forgotten dessert, and now – she glances at the clock – yes, now the shops are closed.  For a moment she panics.  The pounding rush of blood fills her ears, the horrible knowledge that Jocelyn will be disappointed, that the stress of the boat trip will all have been for nothing because dinner is going to be a failure and this tentative friendship she so badly wants will fail along with it, and –

‘Snap out of it, you daft woman.’

She opens the fridge, surveys the contents, followed by a quick check of the tiny freezer.  All is not lost.  She has strawberries and half a tub of decent ice cream.  Rational thought returns, and in five minutes she is sliding a tray of shortbread fingers into the oven above the lasagna.  The familiar ritual of baking has soothed her, and the sweet smell mixes with the rich, savoury pasta as she quickly hoovers then surveys the room.

That’ll have to do.

She sets the table, uncorks the wine to breathe, pulls the pale golden biscuits out of the oven and sets them on the counter to cool. At five to seven she realises that her clothes are covered in flour and dust, hurriedly changes. She is just pulling on a cardigan when there is a knock at the door.

Jocelyn has brought flowers – a bouquet clearly not from the supermarket.  Maggie takes them, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

‘What’s wrong?’

Maggie looks a little embarrassed.  ‘I can’t stand the smell of lilies,’ she admits.

‘Ah.’  Jocelyn’s face falls, then brightens.  ‘In which case.’ She takes the flowers back, is out of the door before Maggie can protest, and then back again, handing over the bouquet.  ‘Better?’

‘Much,’ Maggie says with a laugh.  Jocelyn has taken out all of the lilies.  As she closes the door, she sees them in a line along the top of the garden wall.

‘Mmm, that smells delicious,’ Jocelyn says, following Maggie into the kitchen and watching as she reaches for a vase.

‘Lasagna.  Is that alright?’ 

‘Wonderful,’ Jocelyn smiles.  ‘Wine?’ she asks, reaching for the bottle.

‘Please.’ 

She pours two glasses, leans against the counter and looks around the flat as Maggie fills the vase, takes the flowers from the paper and arranges them.

‘It’s – cosy,’ Jocelyn says politely.

‘Cramped,’ Maggie corrects, placing the vase on the table and picking up her glass.  ‘It’s only temporary.  I’ve looked at a few places but haven’t found anything I like yet.’

‘I’ve always wanted to live in the big house on the cliff top, near where we met.  Just imagine having that view from your bedroom window.’  She smiles, eyes softening.  ‘When I was five I told my father I was going to live there when I grew up.’

Maggie smiles.  ‘What did he say?’

‘That I should have aspirations beyond Broadchurch.’

‘He must have been proud of you.’

Jocelyn shrugs slightly.  ‘He was always disappointed I didn’t follow him and mum into academia.’

‘I spent several decades continually disappointing my mum by not providing her with any grandchildren to dote on.’

‘You don’t like children?’

‘Just never wanted any of my own.  Mum kept trying to fix me up with various eligible young men every time I visited.  I think she finally got the hint when she saw me kissing Susan Morris from down the road.’

The words slip out before she can stop them. She is suddenly very aware of how close Jocelyn is standing to her in the tiny kitchen.  She risks a glance up.  Jocelyn doesn’t look horrified, shows no sign of wishing to flee from her.

‘It didn’t make her redouble her efforts?’

‘No.  It was just never mentioned again.’

Jocelyn senses decades old bitterness, regret for a relationship that never quite recovered.  She ignores the barrister’s urge to probe, to pull at the thread of pain until she drags the whole story out into the light where she can examine it from every angle. Maggie is not a witness in the dock. She will reveal what she wants, in her own time.  Or not, of course.

Maggie is tense, fidgeting with the stem of her glass, waiting for her response.  Jocelyn’s eyes glint. She is tempted to tease, to prove she can give as good as she gets.

And then she feels a tug back to a moment in her own past, a memory she has kept safely – secretly – locked away, unshared. The memory of a warning, implied but no less clear, of one path taken at the expense of another. Sometimes she used to wonder how her life would have turned out if she had gone the other way, but that stopped a long time ago.

The soft chink as Maggie refills her glass brings her back to the present.  No, she can’t tease about this.

‘Worse than arguing about it?’

Maggie shrugs one shoulder.  ‘I never knew what she really thought.  Dad said she just didn’t know what to say, but things weren’t the same after that.  She never seemed to be comfortable with me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Jocelyn says softly, reaching across and gently touching her arm.

Maggie finally looks at her, meets her eye. ‘Does it make you uncomfortable?’ She is guarded, wary of the answer, but defiant in asking anyway.

‘No,’ Jocelyn shakes her head, smiles reassuringly. ‘As far as I’m concerned it doesn’t change anything.’

Maggie smiles in return, although not quite all of the tension drains from her body.

‘Now, are you going to let me try some of this lasagna, or am I only allowed to smell it?’

Maggie relaxes over dinner, once it becomes clear that Jocelyn’s professed lack of discomfort is real, and the conversation flows more and more easily. Maggie tells Jocelyn about her week at work: school sports days, the arrival of the funfair, and the worries of the tourist information office. In return Jocelyn shares her own, quieter week: mornings reading on an almost empty beach, and afternoons fishing the sapphire waters.  She doesn’t mention that the boat felt strangely empty, in a way it hasn’t since her father died. They talk long into the night, beyond dessert, through another bottle of wine and a move to the sofa, until Jocelyn yawns and glances at the clock.

‘I haven’t actually finished packing yet,’ she admits.

‘In which case you should probably go – I don’t want to be to blame for you missing your train.’

‘I suppose so,’ Jocelyn says reluctantly.

‘I had you down as too organised for last minute packing,’ Maggie teases.

‘Time got away from me.’  Jocelyn doesn’t admit that while Maggie was panicking over the state of her flat, she herself had been standing in front of the wardrobe trying to decide what to wear.  She sighs, stretches, stands up.  ‘Two weeks is usually plenty of time for me to spend here,’ she says as they walk to the front door. She opens it, steps out into the cool night and turns back to Maggie.  ‘This time I wish I could stay longer.’

‘You’ll have forgotten all about me after a week back at work.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Daft woman.  It’ll be Christmas before you know it.’

Jocelyn chuckles.  ‘Not many people can get away with calling me daft.’

‘I’m honoured to be among them,’ Maggie grins. She reaches out, touches Jocelyn’s arm. ‘Safe journey.’

On impulse, Jocelyn leans closer, brushes a kiss to her cheek. ‘Goodnight, Maggie.’

‘Goodnight.’

Maggie watches until she’s out of sight, then closes and locks the door and turns to face the mess in the kitchen.  She makes a start clearing plates, then changes her mind: it can wait until morning.

*          *          *

The sun is already climbing high when Maggie drags herself out of bed.  She is leaning against the counter, blearily inhaling the steam from her first mug of tea and surveying the washing up she has to deal with, when the letterbox rattles. She pads into the hall, picks up the single sheet of cream notepaper.  She unfolds it to find a scrawled London address.  There’s no name but there’s only one person it could be from, and she smiles.


	6. Correspondence

The first letter is agony. Maggie makes herself wait a week before writing; she doesn’t want to appear too keen, too desperate to hear from her. And then it takes her an entire day – to begin, to stall, to cross out, to consider over a cup of tea, to crumple up and begin again, over and over.  She hasn’t obsessed like this over anything for years, since she started out on the local paper back home and hadn’t yet grasped the concept of a first draft.

By the evening it’s done, sealed and addressed.  _So much fuss over just a few words_ , she thinks. But they’re for Jocelyn, and it feels like every one has to be perfect. 

It’s over a week before Jocelyn’s reply arrives.  Maggie wonders if she too has had to restrain herself or if she’s simply been too busy. Or if Jocelyn has, perhaps, forgotten about her, as she had only half-teasingly suggested would happen. Every evening her walk home from work is fast, filled with fizzing anticipation; every evening her heart drops when the only envelopes waiting on her doormat are bills and junk.

Until finally she arrives back to find her address scrawled in the same hand as is on the paper now held to her fridge by a cat-shaped magnet, familiar from being seen every time she reaches for milk for her tea.  Fingers trembling slightly she stares at the envelope, toes off her shoes and drops her bag beside them and, dinner forgotten, sinks into a chair.  She resists the temptation to tear it open and devour the words inside, makes herself savour it instead.  Jocelyn’s handwriting is messy, hard to decipher in places; Maggie is somewhat gratified to see that she isn’t _entirely_ perfect. She hears every word in the voice that has begun haunting her again, just as it did during that very first trial.

The correspondence becomes regular, back and forth, as August progresses and the beach becomes busier ( _I see why you avoid visiting during the holiday season_ , Maggie writes), as Jocelyn swelters under her robes and Maggie’s cardigan is shed earlier in the day.  Maggie finds herself picking out encounters and bits of her day that are worth sharing. Occasions when she bumps into Veronica are particularly suitable, perfect for teasing Jocelyn about secrets her mother may or may not have revealed.  The letters become longer, more personal, and the gaps between them shorter, filled with anticipation rather than worry, although the joy at finding a reply waiting never diminishes.

And then, late September. She’s in the noisy, frantic newsroom looking over something Steve has written when the phone in her office shrills. She dashes to answer, is out of breath when she picks it up. 

‘ _Broadchurch Echo_?’

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called. You must be busy.’

‘Jocelyn?  Hang on a mo.’ 

Jocelyn hears the clonk of the receiver being set down, a door being closed, the hubbub at the other end dimming.

‘Well this is a surprise.’

‘A nice one?’

‘Very nice.’  She can hear Maggie smiling, feels herself relax a little. Feels less guilty for disturbing her at work. ‘Is everything alright?’

‘Oh yes, yes. Fine,’ she lies.

‘You’re calling me at work, in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon, just for a chat then, are you?’ Jocelyn is silent. ‘Jocelyn?’

She sighs.  ‘It’s just been a hard day.  Hard week, in fact.’  She hears Maggie’s intake of breath, knows she’s about to ask why, cuts her off before she can get the words out.  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘So what do you want to talk about?’

‘I don’t know, I hadn’t thought that far ahead,’ she admits.  ‘I just wanted to talk to you.’

‘I’ve missed you too,’ Maggie smiles.

She rambles on about events and details that haven’t made it into her letters, about the house she’s thinking of putting in an offer on, and with every word Jocelyn feels a little more tension leave her body, feels her mind calm a little more, until she is able to truly smile.

From then on, their letters are supplemented by regular phone calls.  Jocelyn finds her mother is no longer the person she wants to call first when she has news.  And when she loses a case, instead of hiding away in her flat with a bottle of gin for the evening before throwing herself into her next brief she finds herself reaching for the phone and dialing the number she has already memorised, Maggie’s voice soothing her more than alcohol and work ever have.

(She doesn’t allow herself to dwell on the implications of this.  Or on the way her heart speeds a little every time the phone rings.  Or the way Maggie begins to invade her dreams as well as her waking thoughts. Maggie is her friend, and she’s glad of it.  That’s all.)

*          *          *

‘I have to come up to London for a meeting in a couple of weeks,’ Maggie announces one wet October Tuesday. ‘Thought I might make a weekend of it, catch up with a few friends.’

‘That’ll be nice for you,’ Jocelyn replies, sounding a little disappointed.

‘I must admit, I thought you’d be a bit happier about it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know, for someone so brilliant at work you can be remarkably dense sometimes.’

‘Charming.’

‘I’d like to see _you_ , Jocelyn.  If you’re free,’ she adds hurriedly.  ‘If you’d like to see me, that is.’

‘Oh.’  She pauses, takes a breath.  ‘I’d like that.  I’d like that very much.’

‘Good.  For a minute there you had me worried you were only replying to my letters to be polite,’ Maggie teases.

Jocelyn snorts. ‘Surely you know me better than that by now?’


	7. Soft Wool and Cold Skin

Maggie practically jogs around the corner into Fountain Court, already preparing an apology in her head as she rushes across the leaf-covered flagstones, tense with annoyance but fizzing with the excitement of seeing Jocelyn.  She’s late; bumping into an ex-colleague on Fleet Street five minutes before they had agreed to meet was not part of her plan.  Now, having been unable to get a word in edgeways to excuse herself, she’s quarter of an hour late and is certain Jocelyn is going to be damp and grumpy from waiting.

But Fountain Court is empty.

Maggie frowns, looks at her watch, digs in her handbag for her diary and checks the time she noted down: 2.30pm.

‘I have a lunch meeting I expect will over-run,’ Jocelyn had said on the phone.  ‘But the rest of my afternoon’s clear, so I can finish early for the weekend.’ Maggie had been able to hear her smile.

 _Lunch must have really over-run_ , Maggie decides. Tucking her diary away again she puts her rucksack down on the bench and, hands jammed deep in her pockets, paces around the pool, shivering a little from the damp chill in the air.

By the time Jocelyn appears ten minutes later, the temperature has dropped and the damp has turned to a steady drizzle. Maggie is accustomed to the cold by now, but in just her suit Jocelyn is shivering.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, breathless from the cold and her fast walk.

‘I was getting worried you’d forgotten all about me,’ Maggie jokes, pulling her into a tight hug.  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ she murmurs, brushing a kiss to Jocelyn’s cold cheek.

‘And you,’ she smiles, but her face soon falls again. ‘I’ve just had a brief forced upon me by my clerk,’ she explains, a note of anger in her voice. ‘I made it very clear to him I was _not_ going to be available this afternoon.’  She turns, takes a couple of steps away from Maggie, body and voice tight with tension. ‘But now I have a stack of papers to read and a con at five thirty, and there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘It’s alright,’ Maggie says softly, touching her arm. ‘It’s not your fault.’

‘But I’ve been so looking forward to this weekend,’ Jocelyn rails, turning to look at her.  ‘I’m going to kill that bloody man,’ she mutters.

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Maggie soothes.

‘I’m sorry,’ she repeats.

‘Hush, woman,’ Maggie says with a smile. ‘It’s just a couple of hours, the weekend isn’t ruined.’

Their eyes meet; Jocelyn feels herself calm a little and manages a smile.  ‘You’re right – of course. No need to look so smug about it though,’ she grumbles.  ‘Here,’ she pulls a key from her pocket and passes it to Maggie.  ‘Go and make yourself at home whenever you want. Guest room’s the first on the left. Hopefully I won’t be too late.’

Maggie tucks the key carefully into her bag. ‘I’ll pick up some food on my way. If you call me when you’re leaving I’ll have dinner ready when you get in.’

‘Oh no,’ Jocelyn protests, frowning.  ‘You’re my guest, you can’t cook for me.’

‘Think of it as a thank you for putting up with me for the weekend.’  Maggie’s expression is firm.

‘Fine,’ Jocelyn relents, deciding it’s not worth the argument. She is rewarded with a grin from Maggie. ‘But I’m taking you out for dinner tomorrow.’

‘I think I can live with that.’  Her face falls as Jocelyn shivers again.  ‘Where’s your coat?’

‘In chambers.  I was in such a rush to get here,’ she trails off.  ‘No,’ she shakes her head, steps back out of reach as Maggie pulls off her scarf.   ‘Now you’ll be cold as well.’

‘I’m from the north,’ she says dismissively. ‘I can deal with a bit of cold.’ She steps closer and winds the soft wool around Jocelyn’s neck.

‘Thank you,’ Jocelyn says quietly.  The scarf is warm from Maggie’s body, and she feels the chill start to dissipate.  ‘I’d better go,’ she sighs.

Maggie nods.  ‘Remember - don’t kill your clerk, don’t worry, and don’t forget to call when you’re done.’

‘Yes dear,’ Jocelyn huffs, but her face is softened by the hint of a smile.

*          *          *

By the time Jocelyn presses the buzzer by the main door of her building it’s dark, and the drizzle has turned to heavy rain. She walked home, needing the cold air and exertion to rid her of some of her lingering frustration. The wind has swept rain under her umbrella leaving her damp, and her shoes may never be the same again, but here she is at last.  Maggie’s voice at the other end of the intercom is cheery.  As she pushes open the door Jocelyn smells something delicious, and feels a pang of guilt.

Maggie’s smile fades to a look of concern as Jocelyn starts up the last flight of stairs and comes into view.  ‘You must be frozen, petal.  Change into something dry while I finish dinner.’

Maggie heads back into the kitchen, leaving Jocelyn to slip off her sodden shoes just inside the door, prop her umbrella beside them to dry, and shrug off her coat.  In her room she sits on the bed and peels off wet stockings.  Her suit is pretty much dry but she follows Maggie’s command anyway, stripping to her underwear and camisole and pulling on a long sleeved top and jumper.  Casting a glance at the clock and deciding that it’s acceptable, she adds pyjama bottoms and fluffy socks; it’s only when she slips her legs into the soft fabric that she realises how chilled her skin is.

Padding into the kitchen she watches as Maggie stirs something on the hob, then reaches into cupboards for mugs and teabags and pours steaming water from the kettle.  She looks more at home in Jocelyn’s kitchen than she ever has herself, and Jocelyn feels her lips curve into a smile.

‘Smells good,’ she says quietly, taking a step closer.

Maggie turns, takes in Jocelyn’s new outfit and nods in approval.  When she sees her shiver, however, she hurriedly finishes making the tea and passes over a mug; she frowns when she feels how cold Jocelyn’s fingers are.

‘Sit down and drink that.  Food’s nearly ready.’

Jocelyn does as she’s told, too mesmerised by the sight of Maggie bustling around her kitchen, finding bowls and cutlery, spooning out risotto and topping it with cheese, to complain.  She takes a sip then wraps her hands around the mug, the hot tea and Maggie’s presence warming her equally.

Later, when they’ve finished and emptied the pan of leftovers, Maggie pours them both more wine while Jocelyn heads to the stereo, flicking it on and studying her CD collection, looking for inspiration.

‘Ooh, wait a minute.’  Maggie sets the glasses down on the coffee table and disappears into the guest room. After a moment’s rummaging she comes back, holding out a small bag.

‘What’s this?’ Jocelyn frowns.

‘Generally the idea is that you open a gift to find out,’ Maggie says drily.

‘You didn’t have to get me anything,’ Jocelyn protests.

‘I know.  But I saw it and thought of you, and that day in the boat,’ Maggie explains.

Still frowning slightly, Jocelyn reaches into the bag and pulls out a CD: Bach’s cello suites, played on the lute.

‘I thought you might like it, might be interested in hearing a different version,’ Maggie babbles as Jocelyn stares at the CD, at her, back at the CD again, and then slowly opens the case, pops the disc out, slips it into the stereo and presses play.

The first notes sound, familiar yet entirely different in tone and timbre.  Jocelyn remains standing, staring out of the window at the glowing city and night sky, for the whole of the _Prelude_ , swaying slightly to the music.  In the few seconds before the next movement, the _Allemande_ , begins, she sighs, sinks onto the sofa, and takes a sip of wine.

Maggie is still watching her, reassured only slightly by the peaceful expression on her face.  She had been so excited when she found the CD; now she worries the music is so special to Jocelyn, so sacred, that hearing it played on anything other than the cello is some sort of desecration.  She has just managed to persuade herself that this was a terrible, horrible mistake, that Jocelyn hates it, that she’s ruined everything, when Jocelyn finally looks at her.

‘Thank you, she says quietly, a smile spreading across her face.  ‘It’s wonderful.’

*          *          *

They rise late on Saturday morning, start the day with tea, toast and jam, still in their pyjamas.  The table is covered with sections of the day’s paper; usually the scattering of crumbs and the buttery fingerprints on the corners would annoy Jocelyn, but today she finds she doesn’t care.

It isn’t until they’re getting ready to head out into the chilly, grey October day, until Jocelyn is pulling on her coat, that she realises she left Maggie’s scarf in chambers, hanging over the back of her chair.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologises sheepishly.

‘It’s ok, petal.  I survived yesterday afternoon, I’ll be fine today as well.’

Jocelyn frowns, then disappears into her bedroom. When she comes back a few minutes later, she is clutching a length of soft plum wool.  ‘There,’ she smiles, draping it around Maggie’s neck. ‘Much better.’

After an afternoon wandering through the quieter galleries at the British Museum, avoiding the hordes of tourists around the mummies and the Rosetta stone, Jocelyn keeps her promise.  Dinner at her favourite restaurant, with a bottle of very good – and, Maggie suspects, very expensive – red wine, turns into more drinks at a quiet little bar.  Gin and tonics with cigarettes and easy conversation, eyes catching in the dim light, feet brushing under the small table.  Maggie could blame the alcohol for the blissful, hazy feeling engulfing her but she isn’t in the habit of deceiving herself; when Jocelyn’s fingers close gently around her arm as they wait for a cab outside, when they only break contact so Jocelyn can rummage for her purse to pay the fare, she wonders if the other woman feels it too.

‘What time is your train?’ Jocelyn asks as she fumbles for the light switch, slipping off her shoes and letting the carpet caress her aching feet.

‘Half ten.’

‘Then I suppose we’d better go to bed,’ she says reluctantly. ‘Otherwise we’ll never be up in time.’

‘Cup of tea first?’ Maggie asks, almost pleading.

‘Alright,’ Jocelyn relents with a smile. ‘Just one though.’ Turning and heading into the kitchen, she misses the grin lighting Maggie’s face.  When she comes back with two steaming mugs she finds Maggie swaying gently to quiet music on the stereo.  She holds out a hand, wordlessly imploring Jocelyn to join her. Her instinct is to decline, to sit on the sofa, safe behind her tea.  But she doesn’t.

Later, Maggie will pinpoint this as, not the moment she fell in love with Jocelyn Knight (she isn’t sure what day that dubious honour falls upon), but the moment she _realised_ she loved her.  That moment when Jocelyn took her hand and drew her close, bodies pressed together, warm and soft, Jocelyn’s hand firm on her back, fingers clasped lightly.  For a minute they just swayed together, then began to move around the room, mostly avoiding the furniture, steps resembling no dance Maggie had ever seen, until they stumbled and fell, laughing, on the sofa in a heap of tangled limbs.  Jocelyn’s lithe, slender body caged Maggie beneath her; her breath was hot against Maggie’s neck. Then Jocelyn shifted as if to get up, but paused.  Noses almost touching their eyes met; the laughter died in Maggie’s throat when she saw Jocelyn’s fond smile, a soft expression she couldn’t quite name on her face. This close, she could see every line around Jocelyn’s eyes, longed to trace them with her fingers, to run her hands through the hair framing her face.  Longed, not for the first time, to kiss her, to feel the gentle upward curve of Jocelyn’s lips under her own.

And then Jocelyn was sitting up, holding out her hand to Maggie.  ‘Tea’s getting cold.’

Maggie wondered if she imagined the slight catch in Jocelyn’s voice, the tremor as their fingers brushed when she passed Maggie her mug. If the light in her eyes was just the result of the wine and gin, or if there was something more. If Jocelyn would have pulled away, as if burned, if she had closed that tiny gap between their lips, or if she would have leaned closer, let her body fall, soft and pliant, against her own, let their limbs tangle again.

*          *          *

They part on the platform next morning, bleary from too much gin and too little sleep.  The weather has cleared overnight, leaving a crystal sky; each breath forms a white puff that hangs in the air before it dissipates.

‘Until Christmas, then,’ Maggie says, sadness in her eyes.

‘It’s not so far away,’ Jocelyn smiles, aiming for cheeriness. But she feels the wrench too. ‘Call me when you get back?’

Maggie nods.  ‘Don’t work too late, will you?  Actually, don’t answer that – I know you will,’ she teases.

Jocelyn scowls, but her eyes sparkle with joy. As the train doors open, she tugs Maggie close and hugs her briefly, tightly; warm lips brush cold cheeks in farewell.

She waits on the platform until the train is out of sight, then heads to chambers to attack the mountain of folders on her desk. Draped over the back of her chair is Maggie’s scarf.  She picks it up, draws the soft green and blue wool through her fingers, hesitates a moment and then holds it to her nose and breathes in Maggie’s scent.  She smiles, but it fades when she thinks of Maggie on the train, speeding away from her, of her empty flat, of just how long it is until Christmas.

On the train, Maggie settles into her seat and buries her nose in Jocelyn’s scarf, inhaling the smell of her perfume, her shampoo, of _her_ , with every breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's wondering, the CD Maggie gives Jocelyn is Bach On The Lute: Volume 3 by Nigel North.


	8. 'Twas the Night Before Christmas

Actually, to be accurate, it’s only the week before, but to Jocelyn it may as well be Christmas Eve. The fifteenth of December and she’s still at a loss what to get for Maggie. She checks her diary, then her watch, closes the file she’s been blankly staring at for the past ten minutes and pushes her chair away from her desk.

‘I’m just popping out for an hour or so, Tom,’ she calls to her clerk as she excavates coat and scarf from the stand in the office.

‘Braving the hordes, miss?’

‘Hmm,’ she nods.

‘I’ll send out a search party if you’re not back by five, miss,’ he calls after her. Jocelyn ignores him.

She decides to start at Fortnum and Mason: if nothing else, she’ll be able to get the usual selection of treats for her mother. It is, of course, packed; Jocelyn berates herself for leaving it so late, but there’s nothing to be done about it now so she grits her teeth and makes her way to the food hall. Breakfast tea, jam, ginger biscuits, and rose creams later, her patience is wearing thin: too many people, too much noise, too many Christmas songs. She seeks refuge in the café: it isn’t really an improvement, but at least there is tea.

After twenty minutes trying to ignore the screaming toddler at the table behind her, Jocelyn decides it’s time to move on. She wends her way through the crowd in search of the Christmas decorations. When she was a child, her father had bought something new for the tree every year: the felt holly leaves when she was five, a gold musical note tied with tartan ribbon the year she passed her Grade 5, a glass bauble the colours of autumn leaves when he had spent a semester teaching at Harvard. He stopped when she moved to London, but Jocelyn had started again when he died, finding a new decoration to add to her mother’s tree.

This year, she picks out a delicate glass ball swirled with frosty blue, grey, and sea green. She’s just about to join the queue to pay when her eye is caught by a bauble painted with vivid harlequin diamonds. Somehow, it reminds her of Maggie – the brightness of her smile, her laugh, the joy Jocelyn feels when she thinks of her – and she reaches to pick it up. Perhaps she’ll even indulge Maggie’s unerring nose for a story and tell her about her father’s tradition.

It isn’t until she’s at the counter, watching the young man packaging them in boxes, that she realises with a start that she’s chosen a bauble the colour of Maggie’s eyes.

Later that week, cutting through a side street on her way home, Jocelyn happens to glance at the window of a second-hand CD shop she must have passed thousands of times, and suddenly stops. She hesitates a moment, then slips inside. The proprietor’s hand reaches into the window display for something, and soon Jocelyn is back outside again, tucking a small package into her handbag, a smile on her face. Maybe she’ll tell Maggie the story behind this, too.

On Sunday evening, Jocelyn settles in with Chinese takeaway and a glass of wine to fight with paper and sellotape. (She hasn’t inherited her father’s meticulous present-wrapping skills. Every fold seems to misbehave, and she is certain she spends more time scrabbling for the end of the tape than actually creasing the paper.) She has almost – finally – finished, is just about to attach the tags to the two boxed and wrapped baubles, when the phone rings.

‘Hello?’

‘Have you got plans for Christmas Eve?’

‘You know, most people start a conversation with a greeting,’ she admonishes gently, smiling as the familiar bubble of joy rises in her at the sound of Maggie’s voice.

‘Hello, petal,’ Maggie says obediently. ‘So, Christmas Eve.’

‘Drinks in chambers in the afternoon, then the train back. Why?’

‘Wondered if you’d like to come for dinner, catch up?’

‘Hmm, I don’t know,’ Jocelyn pretends to ponder.

‘You can cast judgement on my new house,’ Maggie tempts.

‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ Jocelyn teases. ‘How could I possibly resist an offer like that?’

*          *          *

And then, all of a sudden, it really _is_ the night before Christmas. Maggie swears under her breath and glares at the string of tail-lights ahead of her. It seems everyone in Dorset is trying to get into Bournemouth for last minute shopping.

‘Of course it was going to be busy, you daft woman,’ she mutters.

She glances at her watch, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel as they crawl forwards. At least she left in plenty of time to meet Jocelyn’s train – even if she won’t have chance for a cup of tea and a spot of people-watching first.

In the end she makes it, breathless, onto the platform just as the train is pulling up: just enough time to straighten her jacket and run a hand through her hair before the doors open.

And there she is.

Jocelyn looks up the platform, then turns; a slight frown becomes a smile.

Maggie’s breath catches in her throat.

‘Are you meeting someone?’

‘I am,’ Maggie smiles, looping her arm through Jocelyn’s.

‘Shouldn’t you wait for them?’ she asks as Maggie starts to lead her off the platform.

‘I’ve already found them.’

‘Was this your idea or my mother’s?’ Jocelyn asks suspiciously.

‘Does it matter?’

Jocelyn looks at her, her smile widening. ‘No,’ she shakes her head, then frees her arm so she can draw Maggie close. ‘It’s good to see you,’ she murmurs.

‘You too, petal,’ Maggie smiles, brushing a kiss to Jocelyn’s cheek. ‘Come on, let’s go. If the traffic’s like it was coming in, it could take us a while to get back.’

 

‘Here we are,’ Maggie says at last, opening the door and ushering Jocelyn inside. ‘I’ll get dinner on.’

She bustles into the kitchen, leaving Jocelyn free to look around. There are books everywhere: on crammed-to-overflowing shelves, on the end of the table, in piles against the wall. It’s clear Maggie is a voracious reader, of all genres. Ian McEwan sits comfortably beside Val McDermid, Jane Austen nestles against Terry Pratchett. The shelves are haphazard, no apparent sorting beyond groupings by author – so different to Jocelyn’s own, well-ordered collection. At one end of the top shelf of a bookcase are a book of birds and one of wildflowers.

‘I didn’t have you down as a birder.’

‘I’m not,’ Maggie replies, emerging from the kitchen with two glasses of wine. She passes one to Jocelyn, their fingers brushing lightly, lingering a moment longer than necessary. ‘Those were a gift from my colleagues in London, to assist me in my new rural life in the back of beyond.’

Jocelyn snorts. ‘Where did they think you were going – darkest Peru?’

Maggie laughs. ‘I tried to tell them Broadchurch is actually a decent-sized town, but they were having none of it.’

‘And have you used them?’

‘Actually I have, in my walks along the cliffs.’

‘Do you go up there often?’ Jocelyn asks, thinking of their meeting at sunset in the summer.

‘I do. It’s not the same without your company, though,’ Maggie admits, glancing to meet Jocelyn’s eyes.

Jocelyn finds herself wanting to draw closer, her free hand raising itself and starting to drift towards Maggie. She turns the movement into a brushing of the book spines in front of her, looks away as she feels a blush spread across her cheeks. Maggie watches the slim fingers, longs to clasp them with her own, remembering the feel of Jocelyn’s palm against hers as they danced.

 _Stop it,_ she scolds herself, sips her wine.

But her eyes disobey the strict injunction, straying back to Jocelyn’s trailing fingers, almost caressing the books.

 _How would it feel?_ she wonders, before she can suppress the thought. _On my skin instead of paper, the ridges of my ribs instead of book spines?_

‘You have an eclectic collection,’ Jocelyn says softly. Her voice is lower than usual, but she’s proud of how steady it is.

Maggie shrugs. ‘Good writing’s good writing, whatever the genre.’ She finally tears her eyes away, retreats to the safety of the kitchen. ‘I suppose you’re a literary snob?’ she calls, forcing a teasing note into her voice even as she leans heavily against the counter and tries to will away the desire to draw Jocelyn into her arms and kiss her.

‘I don’t know about that,’ Jocelyn chuckles. ‘Although I’ll admit I haven’t read a lot of these.’

‘Well we’ll have to see about changing that.’ Maggie pulls herself together, takes a gulp of wine. ‘Dinner’s ready.’

They sit on opposite sides of the table, just far enough apart that their feet don’t brush, that they can both keep their composure. They talk of work, then of plans for tomorrow.

‘You won’t be alone, will you?’

‘No,’ Maggie smiles. ‘I’ve made friends while you’ve been away, you know.’

Jocelyn sees the glint in her eyes, feels a surge of jealousy that there’s someone else Maggie is excited to spend time with – to spend Christmas with. _Why didn’t_ I _think to ask her?_

Later, dinner finished and glasses topped up, Maggie switches on the lights on her tiny, overcrowded Christmas tree, red and green and blue and white sparkling off the tinsel, throwing garish pools onto the wall. She picks a large package, wrapped in silver and tied with a purple ribbon, from underneath, turns to give it to Jocelyn with a shy smile.

Jocelyn stands without a word, disappears into the hall. Maggie hears the rasp of a zip, then Jocelyn rummaging in her suitcase, sits on the sofa to wait. She comes back with two small parcels, sits beside her.

‘Happy Christmas,’ she says, handing them over.

Maggie takes them, passes over her own gift. Jocelyn watches as she studies them then, child-like, tears off the paper.

‘She was the reason I wanted to play the cello,’ she explains as Maggie reads the CD case – Jacqueline du Pré playing the Elgar cello concerto.

‘Well aren’t you working wonders for my classical music education?’ Maggie smiles.

Then the second present, the box. It isn’t until Maggie has unwrapped it, taken out the wad of tissue paper and carefully lifted the bauble that Jocelyn realises, her stomach dropping, that she must have put the tags on the wrong way round.

For in Maggie’s hands, catching the light, is the bauble Jocelyn meant for her mother, the one the colour of Maggie’s eyes. Mortified, she is about to apologise, to leap up and fetch the other box – the right one – from her case. And then she sees Maggie’s face.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmurs, staring at it, then jumps up to find space on the tree. When she sits back down she reaches to touch Jocelyn’s hand. ‘Thank you, petal.’

Jocelyn feels her heart slow, and decides she will tell her about her father.

‘Aren’t you going to open yours?’ Maggie asks, an excited smile on her face, before she can begin.

‘Of course,’ Jocelyn smiles. The story can wait until later.

She gently squeezes the parcel; it’s soft, squishy. Unlike Maggie, she carefully unties the ribbon, peels the sellotape off and unwraps the paper. Inside is a pale grey blanket, soft with angora and intricate with cable patterns. She strokes it then shakes it out, feels the heavy, comforting warmth of it.

‘You had your heating on so high,’ Maggie explains. ‘Soft Southerner,’ she teases.

Jocelyn grins, ignoring what she would have taken as an insult from anyone else, drapes the blanket over their laps and sighs. ‘Oh it’s lovely. Thank you so much, Maggie.’

Veronica’s house is plenty warm enough, but Jocelyn still sleeps under Maggie’s blanket that night.

*          *          *

Jocelyn’s annoyance at herself for not inviting Maggie doesn’t fade overnight.  Still grumpy, she doesn’t notice the glint in her mother’s eye when Veronica banishes her from the kitchen.  She curls in an armchair, wrapped in Maggie’s blanket, and tries to read, but her mind keeps flitting to Maggie, imagining her getting ready to spend the day with someone else.  She sighs and settles deeper into the soft folds. 

In the kitchen, Veronica smiles and chuckles under her breath.

Later, Jocelyn is forced to rouse herself from her – she’s loath to call it sulking, but what else?  Dinner is well underway, the smell of sage and onion filling the house.  There are carols on the radio, the bauble intended for Maggie is on the tree, and Veronica’s friend Neil is telling Jocelyn about the little repairs he’s made to the C _ornflower_.

‘Could you get that please, love?’ Veronica calls when there’s a knock at the door.

Jocelyn opens it to find Maggie on the doorstep.

‘I thought you’d made friends,’ she says a little coldly, trying to keep her heart from rising.

‘I have,’ Maggie smiles brightly.

‘Hello dear,’ Veronica says, walking up behind her daughter, drying her hands on a tea towel.  ‘Happy Christmas.’

Jocelyn looks from one to the other.  ‘I don’t know which of you is the worst,’ she says eventually, shaking her head.

Maggie grins, pulling the door shut behind her against the growing wind.  She shrugs off her coat and unwinds her scarf, then turns to Jocelyn.  ‘Happy Christmas, petal.’

At last Jocelyn smiles, and draws Maggie to her, ignoring the chill of her skin.  ‘Happy Christmas,’ she murmurs.


	9. Fireworks and Champagne

The air is thick with woodsmoke. Maggie inhales deeply, transported back to childhood bonfire nights with sparklers and jacket potatoes. She turns around slowly, brushing hair from her stinging eyes, trying to take it all in, remember it: people queuing for sausages and potatoes cooked in the fire, children running between knots of chatting adults, Shania Twain and Westlife blaring from speakers. Somewhere out there is Reg, the _Echo’s_ photographer. There’ll be a spread in the next edition. It’s up to him to get names, but Maggie will provide the rest of the words to go with them; she wants to do justice to the town tradition.

She talks to a few people about the evening, gauging the general feeling on the eve of the new millennium, until reporter Steve’s children, frequent visitors to the office on their way home from school, invite her to toast marshmallows with them. The fire is welcome in the cold night, and she finds herself thinking of Jocelyn. She, surely, is curled up with tea and a good book. For all that she’s Broadchurch born and bred, Maggie can’t imagine her willingly spending hours shivering on the beach.

When the children, now with sticky fingers, have run off to play, Maggie wanders back to the edge of the beach, shoving her hands deep into her pockets. It hasn’t been this crowded since that hot weekend in the middle of September.

There’s something special about this place, she thinks as she watches. It’s been creeping up on her since she arrived, but now it crystallises. It’s a small town, everyone knows everyone, and they’re bound together.

_Community spirit._ She rolls her eyes at the cliché, but it’s true. And she wants to be a part of it. Broadchurch feels like it could easily become home.

Shivering, she’s about to head down towards the fire again when a hand on her shoulder makes her jump. She whirls around to find Jocelyn beside her.

‘I’m glad I didn’t have to try and find you in that lot,’ she says, nodding towards the crowd.

‘How did you know I’d be here?’

Jocelyn shrugs. ‘The _Echo_ always covers New Year’s Eve. Besides, I knew you’d be curious about it.’

‘You’ve got me there,’ Maggie grins.

‘Are you finished working?’

‘Depends what you’ve got planned,’ Maggie teases.

‘I though you might like to watch the fireworks from up on the cliff.’

Maggie tilts her head, pretends to consider her answer.

‘It’s the best view,’ Jocelyn coaxes. ‘And I have supplies.’ She raises a canvas bag, and Maggie hears the clink of glasses.

‘How could a girl refuse such an offer?’ Maggie says with a smile. She slips her arm through Jocelyn’s. ‘Lead on, Macduff.’

‘You do know that that’s a misquote, don’t you?’

‘‘Lay on, Macduff, and damn’d be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’’ Maggie declaims. ‘What do you take me for, some kind of unread heathen?’

Bickering gently, they make their way up the dark path to the bench on the clifftop, drink steaming tea from Jocelyn’s thermos to warm themselves as they wait. Soon enough it’s almost midnight. Jocelyn reaches into her bag and passes Maggie two glasses to hold while she uncorks the bottle of champagne.

‘Only you would bring real glasses up here,’ Maggie teases as Jocelyn pours the fizzing liquid, careful not to spill it over their gloved hands.

‘Nothing but the best,’ she replies with a smile.

Setting the bottle down beside her feet she takes a glass – and just in time. Bells across the town start to ring, and beacons spring up along the coast.

‘Happy new year,’ Maggie smiles.

‘Happy new year,’ Jocelyn echoes, clinking their glasses and returning her smile.

When the fireworks come Jocelyn is sure they must be spectacular; they certainly go on for a long time, bangs and crackles accompanied by cheering from the beach. She only sees them reflected in Maggie’s eyes, sparks of colour dancing across her face, finds herself unable to look away. Happiness bubbles through her with the champagne, coursing through her veins, until she can think of nothing but the woman beside her.

‘Jocelyn?’

‘Hmm?’ She blinks and realises Maggie is looking at her, waiting for an answer to a question she didn’t hear. ‘Sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?’

‘I just wondered if there’s any chance of a top up.’ She holds up her empty glass.

They finish the bottle between them, the alcohol and joy in Maggie’s presence warming Jocelyn against the cold night. They’ve ended up pressed together, Maggie’s head on her shoulder, Jocelyn’s cheek resting on her hair, and Jocelyn can’t think of anywhere she’d rather be, tonight or any night.

It _is_ cold, though, and eventually they admit defeat and head home, a little unsteady from stiff legs and champagne.

Jocelyn insists on walking Maggie right to her door; she protests but only half-heartedly, unwilling to give up a single moment of time together. The golden light from her hall spills into the night, bathing them in its warmth, Maggie a haloed silhouette against the brightness.

Spellbound, Jocelyn steps closer, barely an inch between them. Maggie’s hair smells of woodsmoke and fresh air; her cheek is cold against Jocelyn’s warm lips. Her nose drifts until it rests against Maggie’s; she lingers there a moment, their breaths mingling. She can feel Maggie’s hand on her elbow, gentle pressure through the layers of coat and clothes.

And then she moves, just oh so slightly, and their lips brush once, twice. Maggie’s grip tightens, holding Jocelyn firmly in place. A third time, more deliberate now, and Jocelyn can taste mingled tea and champagne, and something sweet and intoxicating that is all Maggie’s own.

She draws back reluctantly, a dazed smile on her face, runs a gloved finger lightly down Maggie’s cheek. The wonder on her face makes Jocelyn’s breath catch in her throat.

‘Goodnight, Maggie,’ she murmurs when she can speak.

‘Goodnight.’

Jocelyn doesn’t remember the breathless, lightheaded walk back to her mother’s. She lets herself in as quietly as she can, goes into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Leaning against the counter as she waits for the kettle to boil, she wonders if Maggie is doing the same. She floats into the living room and puts her mug down on the coffee table so she can shed her coat. Glancing up, she catches sight of the photograph of herself when she got silk in pride of place on the mantelpiece.

And suddenly she’s completely sober. Breath forced from her body in a trembling sigh, she sinks into the closest chair.

‘Oh God,’ she murmurs, covering her face with a shaking hand, a surge of panic replacing her happiness.

No.

No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening.

Jocelyn forces herself to breathe, deep and shaky. Again, again, pushing the panic away enough to be able to think. She takes a mental step back, outside her emotions, observes herself and her interactions with Maggie as she would a case.

_How could I not have realised?_

For a moment her heart escapes her control and aches.

‘Oh Maggie,’ she whispers, tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling.

Jocelyn had the importance of professional reputation drilled into her at an early age by her academic parents, then her tutors, her pupil-mistress. Especially important as a woman in a man’s world, they had all said. Don’t show any weakness, don’t give them any excuses to pass you over in favour of a mediocre man. You have to be unimpeachable.

She thinks of Caitlin, her rival pupil in chambers all those years ago. Bright, rebellious, _unafraid_ Caitlin with her red hair, scarlet-stained lips and vivid green eyes. Jocelyn remembers stolen kisses and sneaked, frantic fumbles against office walls and doors. Remembers being found, both of them trembling and with smudged lipstick, by her pupil-mistress. Being gently but firmly reminded of the importance of a barrister’s reputation. Jocelyn had heeded the implied warning. Caitlin had not. Jocelyn has seen her a few times since, always with the same woman and looking happy, but not a silk: career abandoned for the love of a woman, one path relinquished for the sake of another.

Jocelyn stuck to the path she had known she wanted to follow since she was nineteen and had her first taste of practicing law, albeit in a mock trial. There had been no question, really, no choice to be made. She felt more alive – more energised and alight – in court than anywhere else, including Caitlin’s arms. Until Maggie, that is.

And now here she is, at the top of her game, respected by her peers. It’s all she’s ever wanted. How could she throw all this, her life’s work, away because of one kiss, because of a transient desire?

She ignores the voice in her mind that says it’s more than that, more than transient. Squashes it down and locks it away with the memory of Caitlin’s kisses.

_This is a logical decision,_ she thinks. _Logic. I’m good at that._

Emotions pass and desire wanes. This will be better, for both of them. Safer. The other possibility is too complicated, too uncertain, to contemplate. Too much to go wrong, for both of them.

Jocelyn drinks her tea, goes to bed, forbids herself to think of Maggie. She spends a restless night slipping in and out of unsettling dreams she can’t remember when she wakes.

*          *          *

Later that morning, despite the chill breeze and pervasive drizzle, Jocelyn goes for a walk. The streets are quiet, most of last night’s revellers still inside recovering, and she’s glad of it, glad not to have to smile greetings or make small talk. Her feet carry her automatically to the front, then along and up to the cliff, the wind in her face.

Someone is already sat on the bench, staring out at the grey sea and sky, the unmistakable figure and blonde hair seared on Jocelyn’s memory. Her step falters – she isn’t ready for this – but Maggie turns and spots her, and it’s too late to turn back.

Jocelyn is certain her heart stops when Maggie drags damp hair from across her face and grins at her. She feels her resolve waver as she walks closer and sees the brightness in her eyes. The desire to kiss her again almost overwhelms her as she sits down and Maggie’s gloved hand seeks out her own.

_It’s better this way,_ she reminds herself sternly, even though all her logical arguments suddenly seem weak in Maggie’s presence.

She hears her take a breath, about to speak. It has to be now.

‘I’m sorry about last night,’ she hears herself say. ‘Too much champagne.’

Maggie’s smile falters, her heart falling. She fights back the impulse to rail against Jocelyn: she can see the hurt in her eyes, knows she’s lying, scared, wants to push and push until she gives in and tells the truth. But Jocelyn is not a story, even though there clearly _is_ a story here.

Jocelyn waits, anxious, apologetic, watching the emotions flit across Maggie’s face. She tries not to think about how she watched the fireworks dance in her eyes just hours ago. Tries to ignore the pain, the way her own heart aches. She wants to take back her words, to reach for Maggie and hold her. Wants that feeling back again, when their lips touched and she was certain she was floating, before reality flooded in. Wants to tell her the truth – that she’s scared of this feeling filling her heart, and of what it means, and of what it might do to her life.

‘It’s alright,’ Maggie says softly, almost hiding the hurt in her voice.

‘Still friends?’ Jocelyn asks, almost keeping the pleading note from her own.

‘Of course.’ Maggie squeezes her hand gently, manages a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes and looks back out to sea. ‘Always friends.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not done with Jocelyn and Maggie but this moment - the moment - felt like the right place to end this sequence. Thank you for reading and leaving kudos/comments, they've kept me going and mean a lot - and I'm sorry it's taken so long to get here. I hope you'll join me (and Jocelyn and Maggie) again soon!


End file.
